


Cold

by Deathtouch



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: ...ok, Anal Sex, Blood, Blood Drinking, Blood Kink, Blood and Gore, Blood and Torture, Blood and Violence, Bloodlust, Bloodplay, Character Death, Cold, Cold Weather, Come Eating, Come Sharing, Come Swallowing, Death, Half-Sibling Incest, Hunters & Hunting, Hunting, Incest, Killing, Leeching, M/M, Murder, Oral Sex, Parent/Child Incest, Rough Sex, Sibling Incest, Threesome, Threesome - M/M/M, flaying, leeches, lets do this, there's so much i'm forgetting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-30
Updated: 2014-10-30
Packaged: 2018-02-23 04:08:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 8
Words: 16,354
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2533640
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Deathtouch/pseuds/Deathtouch
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>My entry for the Bolton Fic X Change. I was given the prompt "Murder, hunting, leeching, legacy". In the spirit of the exchange this fic was intended to be both disgusting and slightly unsettling! Please enjoy.</p><p>  <i>There were nights where he woke in darkness, shivering. It wasn’t the cold that made him shiver, but something else. Something he couldn’t explain. His fingers trembled, and his throat would ache or his stomach would feel unwell, and it was as if all the blankets and body heat in the world couldn’t combat the shakes that rattled through him. Ramsay called it cold to comfort himself. He was just cold, that’s why he was shaking and shivering and his teeth were chattering in the night. Just the cold, and nothing more.</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	1. i

**Author's Note:**

> I would like to thank Hellraiser II for an infinite amount of inspiration. I would like to that that one sex scene in Gone Girl with the blood in it. I would like to thank the song Cold by Static X. I would like to thank the fantastic mod heading the Bolton X Change for putting this all together. I would like to thank the Bolton Fam on twitter for listening to me bitch about how hard writing is, and encouraging me to get this beast of a fic done on time. I would like to thank [dextromethamphetamine](http://archiveofourown.org/users/dextromethamphetamine/pseuds/dextromethamphetamine) for their amazing fic that inspired me to write better.
> 
> Most importantly I would like to thank my amazing beta [Subwaywolf](http://archiveofourown.org/users/SubwayWolf/pseuds/SubwayWolf). I agreed to this participate in this fic exchange only after he conceded to participate with me. His entry in the collection is directly relevant to all of my interests and inspired me to push myself. Wolfu was there reminding me to write, encouraging me with ideas (and putting up with my terrible ones), and influencing me without realizing it. As always he answered all my inane questions, improved my fic exponentially, and beta'd this whole thing in one night because he is such a fucking baller and he can roll like that. (It certainly has nothing to do with how long I waited to get this done haha.) Thank you Subwaywolf for everything. I would be completely lost without you!

  
  
In the north, it was always cold. Even when the sun split the clouds and shined down on the land, there was always wind. Sometimes the wind howled hard and sometimes it whistled low through the trees, but it was constant and cutting. It rattled Ramsay to the bone, and he never felt warm. He could wear layers of wool or leather and show his hands to the fire, and he would still feel the chill deep within him. Most of the time, he didn’t mind it. He could wade waist deep in waters where ice patched the surface. He could let snow melt in his hair and against his cheeks and on his eyelashes. He could face the wind at its strongest without ever backing down.  
  
There were nights where he woke in darkness, shivering. It wasn’t the cold that made him shiver, but something else. Something he couldn’t explain. His fingers trembled, and his throat would ache or his stomach would feel unwell, and it was as if all the blankets and body heat in the world couldn’t combat the shakes that rattled through him. Ramsay called it cold to comfort himself. He was just cold, that’s why he was shaking and shivering and his teeth were chattering in the night. Just the cold, and nothing more.  
  
The first time Ramsay ever felt warm, truly warm, was cutting the throat of one of the squealing pigs his father sent every year. His mother had him butcher the animal for meat, and as the blade cut through the soft pink flesh of the pig’s neck hot blood had come spilling with it. Ramsay’s fingers had been slick with it, first bright red, then dark as more and more blood pooled in his palms and in the lines of his fingers. Ramsay loved the feeling of blood on his hands. He could have bathed in it and been happy.  
  
It did not seem odd to go from cutting the throats of animals to cutting the throats of humans. The bodies were a chore to contend with, but Ramsay didn’t mind. Hours spent digging shallow graves were worth it for the few minutes he could spend with fresh, hot blood on his own skin. It warmed him in a way that animal blood could not, and sent his shakes in the night away. When he went too long without someone to kill, his shivers came back, and he woke with his teeth chattering. All Ramsay had to do was find a hapless traveler who had wandered too close to the mill the next day, and he would feel sated again.  
  
It was lucky for Domeric that he happened to pay his little brother a visit the night after a fresh kill. Ramsay was at ease. If he had come a day sooner, he might have had a knife in his throat before the words explaining who he was ever came out.  
  
Ramsay had never seen someone with hair as dark or eyes as pale as Domeric's. He had seen his own reflection, in buckets of well water and in the surface of streams, but even he knew he was not as beautiful in comparison. Domeric didn’t look at him like he was something ugly though, he smiled with earnest delight when he saw Ramsay’s face. He showed his affection with kind touches, sweet and soft and gentle. That was how Ramsay learned that the heat of a kiss felt almost as good as the warmth of blood.  
  
It was not that Ramsay especially wanted to leave home; it was that he was too enraptured in his brother not to go with him. The Dreadfort had never been more than a stone’s throw away from the mill and Ramsay had seen it often, looming in the distance; taunting him. He never thought he would end up there, not really. No matter what his mother told him, he never thought he’d make it. One moment he was at home, at the mill, and the next he was spirited away on the back of Domeric’s chestnut mare, gripping his brother about the waist. They raced into the wind, where the cold was sharper and shriller than it had ever been, and Ramsay faced it bravely.  
  
Ramsay worried that he might not be able to get away with so much killing at the Dreadfort. He thought his shakes would come back to him, shivering up his spine in the night, but they didn’t. Domeric kept him satisfied. If his kisses were hot, sex with him was even hotter. His come was the warmest of all, and Ramsay liked to swallow it. He liked feeling it pool in his belly and warm him from the inside out.  
  
Domeric preferred painting his face, white and sticky. He would catch his breath once he’d done it and stroke Ramsay’s hair and swear to all the gods that he was beautiful just like that, covered in come. Ramsay liked that too, it was fun in its own way. It was messy, but he didn’t mind. Domeric always kissed spit into his mouth after, and tasted his own seed where it had landed on Ramsay’s lips, and groaned like it was the greatest taste in the world.  
  
It wasn’t all sex though. Domeric was oddly sweet to him too. He gave Ramsay kisses when they were alone. The halls of the Dreadfort were cold, and the dungeons were colder, and in the courtyard and just beyond the castle walls it was even colder still. Domeric liked kissing him in all of those places and more; lips wet and warm, ready to remind Ramsay that heat need not always come from the blood of a fresh kill, or a night of pleasure.  
  
Domeric insisted that the Dreadfort was Ramsay’s home and made sure his brother felt welcome. He also insisted that Ramsay ought to be allowed access to all the same things Domeric had growing up. This included good food, care from the maester should he feel unwell, lessons in the histories and reading, and countless other things Ramsay didn’t know he needed that his brother swore he did. Ramsay had only just started to learn how to read, and he hated it, but Domeric wanted so desperately to teach him.  
  
The best part of all this, in Ramsay’s opinion, was that he was allowed access to the same weapons, and weapons training. Ramsay started learning how to use a bow as soon as he could, seeing as he was unfamiliar with it. He could hack and slash with a sword, he was good enough with an ax, and he was great with a knife, but the bow he was a mess with.  
  
Domeric happily sat with him and watched him learn as one of the archers from Roose’s guard instructed him. Ramsay wasn’t very good, but he was getting better. The archery range was always cold, he noticed. The wind howled in over the castle walls, and he swore it ran his arrows off course, but he never complained he only ever tried to do better. He met the wind head on. It whipped at his face and kicked back his hair and ruffled the fur at his shoulders. Domeric didn’t seem to mind the cold. He never seemed anxious to go inside, or find a fire to warm up by. The archer who taught Ramsay seemed all too happy to end lessons early and leave the cold wind to howl by its lonesome, but he seemed alone in this when compared to Domeric and Ramsay.  
  
Ramsay met Roose Bolton with a bow in his hand, and with an icy gust of wind blowing back his black hair.  
  
“Father.” Domeric had gotten to his feet at the sight of their Lord Father returning.  
  
Roose’s eyes, as cold as the air around them, found Ramsay in that moment. He stared so hard, it hurt. Ramsay had held ice in his hands before. Sometimes it formed in the night, dripping from the leaves and branches of trees to make long pointed icicles. Sometimes he found pieces in the river bigger than he was, flat as a sheet. He was all too familiar with the way it stung his skin if he held it for too long; burning, stinging, and awful. He could swear being stared at by Roose felt the same.  
  
“You shouldn’t have brought him here.” Roose spoke so softly to Domeric that Ramsay might not have heard it at all.  
  
He left them then with a sweep of his pink cape and did not bother to speak to them again. He had been gone for the first few weeks of Ramsay’s arrival, and suddenly having him at The Dreadfort made no difference. They did not pass each other in the halls, he did not join them for dinner, and he had no reason to visit Domeric or Ramsay during their lessons.  
  
During archery, Ramsay occasionally felt needles prickling over the back of his neck, cold and terrible like hard wet snow pelting him. When he turned it was to see the pink of Roose’s cape disappearing from a window, and sometimes he was long gone before Ramsay caught sight of him, but Ramsay always knew when he was looking.  
  
“Why does our father dislike me so much?” Ramsay asked Domeric once, only once.  
  
They were both naked, curled under the furs of Domeric’s bed, bodies pressed close to one another. “He likely thinks you’re more trouble than you’re worth,” Domeric answered honestly. He pressed his lips, red and sweet, to Ramsay’s again and again in kiss after kiss. “But don’t worry. I’ll help you show him you’re worth keeping around.”  
  
Ramsay hadn’t liked that answer, because it hadn’t comforted him any, but he supposed he would just have to trust his brother. He had no reason not to.  
  
Ramsay woke shivering that very night, shaking all over. He had dreamt of rich red blood on his hands and roused, aching for it. The candles in Domeric’s room had dwindled down to stubs or gone out entirely, and it was dark around them.

Of course his brother was up on his elbows, squinting into the darkness. “You’re shaking,” he whispered into the silence that came in the middle of the night.  
  
“Cold,” Ramsay told him. It wasn’t a lie, exactly, but it almost felt like one.  
  
Domeric reached out for his brother’s forehead, gently pressing the back of his palm there the way Ramsay’s mother used to do when he was little. It was odd, and it felt strange for his brother to touch him with such tender concern. Domeric pulled his hand back, eventually, and leaned in to kiss Ramsay. “I don’t feel anything,” he said. “But, it’s a good thing you’ve woken. I dreamt of you swallowing my come, and my cock is hard.” He smiled a flash of white teeth in the dark.  
  
Ramsay didn’t mind the distraction. He crawled under the blankets and found that his brother was indeed stiff and ready for him. He swallowed Domeric’s cock eagerly, letting it slide down the length of his throat. He’d gotten better in the time that he’d spent with his brother, not that Ramsay hadn’t been good to begin with. When Domeric came, thick and rich and warm, the heat filled Ramsay’s belly and made him feel better. He was glad for his brother, and for the odd comfort, strange as it was.


	2. ii

Domeric told him he was ready for a hunt after they broke their fast the next morning. Ramsay didn’t know that he’d been preparing for one. He expected that was what fancy lords did when they were bored. They had servants to do work for them, after all, and with no chores to complete it was easy to run out of entertainment.  
  
Ramsay had never been on a hunt himself, but he supposed it couldn’t be too difficult. He could knock birds from trees with rocks, and trap the furry animals that lived in the woods with ease. He had never tried anything big, or fast, but there was a first time for everything and Domeric would be by his side ready and willing and eager to teach him.  
  
Ramsay didn’t know what they were hunting, and hadn’t thought to ask. They followed game trails in the woods, talking and laughing and stealing kisses from one another. Domeric stopped every so often to set rudimentary snares, which he did with deft grace and practiced hands. Never once did he stop talking. Ramsay thought, fleetingly, that they were supposed to be quiet during a hunt. How would they attract animals if they kept scaring them away with noise? Then he thought Domeric knew better, and if they were doing something wrong his brother would mention it.  
  
The wind was especially cold, and Ramsay had worn no gloves. Domeric had thrust a bow into his hand, and stuffed a quiver full of arrows for him to use before they left the Dreadfort. Ramsay was better at the bow without gloves, though he was starting to regret not bringing any. The chill crept in through his fingers, and crawled its way up his arms, and blossomed terribly in his chest.  
  
When Domeric stalled in his tracks, and held up a hand that ceased their talking, Ramsay hurried to notch and draw an arrow. His fingers were shaking, shaking, shaking. His brother waved him closer, and through the leafy greens of trees and tall dark grass he saw two travelers squatted in the path warming themselves over a fire.  
  
Ramsay’s heart leapt into his throat. Humans. They were hunting humans. Domeric need not say a word for him to know. It should strike him as odd that they were about to murder two people, but in that moment, he could not stand the thought of doing anything else.  
  
Domeric cast his pale eyes on his brother, for only a moment, before returning his gaze to their prey. He had brought a spear with him, long enough but short in comparison to the ones used for fighting. Ramsay had been eyeing those in the armory, wondering if he might get lessons in that next. Domeric quickly abandoned the weapon, and left it leaning against a nearby tree. He reached out, slowly, quietly, to lower Ramsay’s bow.  
  
Ramsay eased off the tension, slid the arrow out of place and back into the quiver, and handed his bow to his brother. It found a place against the tree as well. They both had hunting knives, long and dangerous, attached to their belts. That was all they would need.  
  
Domeric did the hard work, the catching and ensnaring of their prey. Ramsay did the slaughtering. He watched his big brother wade through the weeds to the weary travelers in the path and he followed two steps behind. Domeric was sweet and kind and asked for a spot by the fire, offering hard bread in return. Ramsay stood behind him, silent and stoic. The travelers asked questions about who they were, as if the red and pink of their outfits did not inform them. Domeric told lies. He was better at telling lies than anyone Ramsay had ever heard. He was hard pressed not to smile as he was very quickly becoming more and more impressed with his brother.  
  
The travelers believed them, for a little while. Then they seemed suspicious, and before they could knit their eyebrows together in uncertainty, Ramsay plunged a knife into both of their throats. The fire had done nothing for him when he stood by it, but the warmth of the blood that oozed between his fingers and pooled in his palm and made him feel whole again.  
  
“Feels good, doesn’t it?” Domeric said to him, noting the way his brother did not shy away from the mess.  
  
“It’s so warm,” Ramsay admitted. It felt good to be honest with someone.  
  
“I know, little brother,” Domeric kissed the top of his head and let Ramsay enjoy the warmth a while longer.  
  
Domeric showed him how to flay corpses then. He unsheathed a terribly sharp knife, hooked in a most cruel-looking fashion. It was shaped especially for its purpose, and he offered it to his brother. Ramsay knew what flaying was. It was on the banners planted all around the Dreadfort, pink men at every turn. He never put the thought together in his mind that he ought to try it. As it turned out, he was rather good at it. Sentiment told him that flaying was in his blood, and he was meant to do this.  
  
“Does every hunt go like this?” Ramsay had asked his brother, knife sliding under the still-warm flesh of his kill.  
  
Domeric only shrugged his shoulder, his black hair tussling in the wind. “More or less.”  
  
“What happens now?” Ramsay continued his questions as he continued the flaying.  
  
“We’ll take his flesh back to father,” Domeric explained, watching expertly. His brother needed little correction. “If he’s impressed with us, he’ll give us a reward.”  
  
Ramsay stilled the knife in his hand, pressed delicately under the grey-pale flesh of the traveler he was working on. He glanced up at his brother. “A reward? Like money?”  
  
Domeric quirked his head and smiled a soft smile but his expression told Ramsay how silly that idea was. “No, little brother.” Domeric laughed, kindly. “Not money.”  
  
Ramsay swallowed. “Something else then?” He looked back down, and returned to his task.  
  
Domeric hummed in reply, an indifferent noise and not an answer.  
  
Ramsay tried to think of all the things better than money. Sex, of course. Sex and killing were the only two things he could think of, and they’d already done the killing. It was not the fact that Roose was his father that dissuaded him from the idea, but simply the fact that Roose didn’t seem especially interested in him. Then again, Domeric hadn’t seemed interested at first either, but Ramsay had since been fucked by his brother enough times to know where Domeric's interests lie.  
  
Ramsay considered that there could be more to this, though. His brother had mentioned his worth and proved it. Maybe their expedition, their foray in hunting, and the lesson in flaying had something to do with it. Ramsay had done most of the work, after all. Domeric had told lies and enticed their prey, that was true, but Ramsay did the killing and the flaying and surely that had to count for something.  
  
When the bodies were no more than skeletons wrapped in muscle and oozing blood, Ramsay stood. He draped the pelts they had earned from their hunt over one shoulder. The skin had grown cold in the time it had taken him to strip it from the bodies and so had the blood that still clung to the flesh, slimy and wet and now cool.   
  
Though the flayed skin he carried no longer radiated with body heat, Ramsay could feel the way it trapped his own body heat in. If he draped the flesh about his shoulders and wore it as a cape, he had no doubt it would keep him warmer than the fabric he wore now. He was almost tempted.  
  
Domeric let his brother shoulder the weight of both skins, not that they were heavy. They were Ramsay’s, he insisted, and he had earned them. The two of them picked up their weapons and followed the same paths back home. They found a rabbit caught in one of Domeric’s snares. He untangled it, ensured its death, and brought it with them joking about rabbit stew and a new pair of gloves. Ramsay wondered if he could make a new pair of gloves from the skins over his shoulder. He wondered if he could slip his hand into the peeled fingers of the men he had killed. Would it fit comfortably?  
  
Ramsay did not know the procedure of presenting the flayed skin to their father, or even if there was one. They returned to the Dreadfort where servants of all kinds complimented them on their trophies. Domeric’s rabbit got little attention; it was the flayed flesh everyone wanted to see. Ramsay stretched one hide out in his hands, showing the length of the man’s body to anyone interested. It didn’t feel abnormal, or odd. He did not think this type of hunting was done anywhere else in the north or in Westeros at all for that matter, but at the Dreadfort they welcomed it near cheerfully.  
  
They conceded their weapons to the armory and afterwards Domeric lead them inside, promising that on the next hunt they could bring the dogs with them. The dogs were much more exciting, he promised. Ramsay thought that hunting without them was exciting in its own right, but he certainly wouldn’t mind bringing the girls along. He heard they were ravenous. He wondered what it would look like when they tore into the flesh of human. Would the blood spray still warm him if he had not been the one to kill? Ramsay wanted to find out.  
  
He did not know they were going to find Roose until they were at his door. Ramsay would have liked to clean up first, perhaps wash the blood from his hands. It had stained his fingers and his palms, and crawled all the way up his wrists leaving stains there too. He was sure he looked a mess, and the minute he felt Roose’s cold, scrutinizing glare gust over him like a blast of ice cold wind he knew it was true.  
  
Domeric had found their father in his solar and entered after only one knock. Ramsay would not have been so brash, and he was the bolder of the two of them in many cases. Roose was sitting at a table stacked with books, letters, and a quill and ink. Whether he was writing or reading, it did not matter which because Ramsay and Domeric’s entrance captured his attention.  
  
Domeric went to one knee before his father, and Ramsay had the good sense to join him down there. “Father…” he began.  
  
Roose did not have to say anything to cut Domeric off; all he had to do was stand. Domeric’s eyes followed his father’s face, and he watched as Roose moved, and took a place standing before the length of the table he’d been sitting at. He was closer to them this way, though not much. He could cast his eyes down at his sons now that he was standing.  
  
Ramsay noticed that the air in the room felt thin, like being high atop a mountain peak, and as cold as that as well. He felt chilled deep in his bones despite the blood that had warmed him earlier. Most kills kept him satisfied for days, but the presence of Roose had run that warmth right out of him in less than an hour.  
  
“I told you not to take him hunting with you,” Roose said, a breath of winter in his voice, cold as it was quiet.  
  
Ramsay tried not to be concerned, but he saw Domeric’s eyebrows furrow.  
  
“Father, Ramsay brought back two trophies for you. Two. He killed them himself. He flayed them himself. I was there by his side, but the work was all his. You would have been proud of him.” Domeric turned his head to glance at his brother. “Show him, Ramsay.”  
  
Ramsay unfurled the pelts from his shoulder, lying them out across the floor. The last lingering warmth they had provided him was gone. He felt like a child handing over his safety blanket. The full strength of Roose’s cruel cold pierced through him. Ramsay’s fingers felt numb.  
  
“Turn up your palms, Ramsay,” Domeric instructed. Ramsay hesitated, only a little, but did as his brother bid him. “Tell father what you told me.”  
  
Ramsay was confused. “What did I tell you?”  
  
“About the blood,” Domeric encouraged, smiling at him so sweet.  
  
“It… it’s warm.” Ramsay admitted, still uncertain. His gaze shifted from his brother to Roose, and staring straight into his father’s eyes was like staring at fresh fallen snow lit up bright white with sunlight. “It’s warm.” He said again. “Warmer than I’ve ever been, I… it’s…” It wasn’t that Ramsay trailed off, so much as he knew Roose no longer wanted him to speak.  
  
The icy chill of Roose’s gaze shifted, regarding his eldest son instead. “This is your decision?” He questioned, softly.  
  
Domeric nodded earnestly. “It is.”  
  
“Crawl to me, Ramsay,” Roose ordered.  
  
Ramsay didn’t know what had been decided, and somewhere in the back of his mind he thought he should be concerned about this, but he just wasn’t. He would ask later, if he remembered. His present concern was Roose’s order. He wasn’t usually one for crawling.  
  
“It’s okay.” Domeric set the example by crawling to Roose first. He was cat-like and fluid, and he tread over the flesh Ramsay had laid before them as if it were nothing more than a floor mat. He crawled to his father on all fours, and when he reached Roose he sat back on his heels and angled his face up. Roose touched the curve of his eldest sons’s face so gingerly, so gently, Domeric could do little else than close his eyes and shudder. He was aching for more, Ramsay could tell, desperate for the contact.  
  
Although he was still uncertain, Ramsay crawled forward to join the two of them. He was not as graceful as his brother had been, and he knew it, but that was true in most things. Domeric had not confirmed that their reward would be sex, but Ramsay could imagine little else in their present situation.  
  
As he crawled closer and closer to his father, Ramsay expected the air to get colder. Like walking towards an open door, where the cold draft was rushing in, snow and sleet and hail blowing with it. It wasn’t so. The room was cold, yes, but it was no colder at Roose’s feet than it had been where he had knelt. When he was close enough that he could lean in and nuzzle his father’s thigh if he wanted to, he sat back on his heels as his brother had and looked up.  
  
Roose looked at him. It was terrible, and it sent a shiver down Ramsay’s spine, but he looked back. When his father reached for his face, to touch it gently, Ramsay nearly flinched. He expected Roose’s fingers to be frozen. He expected the icicles from the trees, and the sheets of ice from the river, and the cold, cold wind that howled in from the north.  
  
Roose touched him, and his fingers were like hot fire. Ramsay gasped. The heat of it did not sting at first and then suddenly give way to frozen coldness like his Roose’s gaze did, but warmed Ramsay. The touch burned through him, lighting his whole body afire. No pig’s blood, no taste of his brother, no human blood could compare. Ramsay pressed his cheek into Roose’s palm, and closed his eyes, basking in it.  
  
Even with his eyes closed, Ramsay knew Domeric was smiling at him. He could feel it. When his dark lashes fluttered open, his eyes found his brother and Ramsay’s suspicions were confirmed. Domeric looked so happy. He was leaning against Roose’s thigh, watching Ramsay’s pleasure, completely enraptured.  
  
Roose’s thumb brushed his bottom lip, as soft as his voice when he spoke, and Ramsay opened his lips to take his father’s thumb into his mouth. The heat was stronger when felt through his mouth and it spread passed his teeth and over his tongue. When he sucked and swallowed the warmth stayed with him. Ramsay could not say the same thing for the mulled wine he often drank with Domeric, which only chased away chill momentarily and did not last like he knew the taste of Roose would.  
  
The pad of Roose's thumb brushed purposefully over Ramsay's tongue, and Ramsay loved it. He scarcely noticed his brother; he was too distracted by the pleasure from his father's fingers.   
  
Domeric had gone from leaning gently against Roose's thigh to nuzzling it eagerly, and then mouthing at the dark fabric of the pants that Roose wore. He left wet marks with his tongue, and when his mouth found the soft bulge of his father's cock he focused his efforts there.   
  
Ramsay suckled at Roose's fingers, and Domeric his clothes, and Roose gave little indication at all that he felt a thing. He was growing harder though. Domeric saw to that. When his crotch was wet with spit, and Domeric's lips were red from the rough of the fabric, the boy pulled away.   
  
"Father," Domeric whispered. His voice hit tones so low and husky that Ramsay could not help but to shudder. Domeric his fingers up the length of Roose's thigh, practically pawing at him.  
  
"Go on," Roose allowed him.  
  
Domeric could not unlace his father fast enough. Ramsay helped. Not with the laces, but with the waistband when the laces were undone. Together he and Domeric slid Roose's clothes away, revealing his hard cock beneath. Ramsay knew without knowing that Roose's cock would be even hotter than his hand, and as much as he appreciated the warmth of the palm against his cheek and Roose's thumb in his mouth, he tried to pull away, desperately seeking more warmth.   
  
Roose hooked his thumb into Ramsay's bottom teeth and he gave the boy's head a shake. "Let your brother go first," he ordered with a voice low but mean. Ramsay was startled by it.  
  
"It's okay, father." Domeric smiled and looked at Ramsay the way he always did, with love. "He needs it. Let him have you."   
  
Roose seemed displeased with that, but slid his thumb from Ramsay's mouth and nodded at the boy.   
  
Ramsay hesitated, and looked at his brother. "Together?" He suggested to Domeric.   
  
Domeric considered, and his sweet smile turned mischievous for just a moment before he nodded his head agreeing.  
  
Together they leaned in, heads nearly nocking against one another, the ends of their long black hair tangling. Ramsay nuzzled right into their father's hard cock, nudging it with his nose and mouth, pushing it up to lay flat against Roose's belly. It was even hotter than Ramsay could have hoped. He licked out his tongue, sliding it up the length. Domeric pressed his cheek to Ramsay's, joining him with his tongue. Domeric groaned happily. They made a mess together, licking and licking, spreading sticky saliva, coating their father’s cock, making it nice and wet. Their tongues touched, occasionally, and their faces were pressed right against each other.   
  
Ramsay realized that if he turned his head he could give his brother a kiss, and so he did. Domeric let him, laughing into his mouth, and Roose’s hard cock came to rest against Ramsay’s cheek as soon as they stopped lathering it with their tongues.  
  
Roose did not seem entirely invested; it was almost as if it did not matter whether they sucked or swallowed or licked him to completion. He didn’t mind that they stopped paying attention to him to kiss each other; if anything he might have liked that better. He reached down for his cock, stroking thoughtlessly with his fingers, knuckles brushing over Ramsay’s cheek as Domeric thrust his tongue into Ramsay’s mouth.  
  
Domeric’s mouth was delicious, and the taste of their father lingered on his tongue, but it was not nearly as warm as Ramsay remembered it being. Before now, every kiss from Domeric had been a breath of warmth. In comparison to their father, it was nothing at all. Ramsay still liked kissing him, of course, his lips were too sweet to say no to, but after a little while he pulled back. Domeric’s spit was all over his bottom lip, so Ramsay licked it.  
  
Domeric smiled at him. “You did the killing, Ramsay,” he whispered softly. “You’re the one who gets the reward.”   
  
Ramsay nodded. He knew what his brother meant without really knowing. It felt like turning a literal cold shoulder to Domeric, and blocking him away from Roose’s heat, but Ramsay turned his full attention to their father then. Domeric sat back enough to give them space to work.   
  
Ramsay parted his lips, opening his mouth and slackening his jaw. Roose stared at him, coldly, his eyes a stark contrast from the heat of his touch. He gave his hard cock one more stroke before unhanding it entirely and penetrating Ramsay’s mouth. His cock slid over Ramsay’s tongue, to the back of his throat, where the heat of it felt so intense it actually made Ramsay gag. He was better than that. He never gagged. Though once he started, he could scarcely stop, and big tears welled up in his eyes that he couldn’t seem to control. Roose was undeterred by both the gagging and the crying.  
  
“It’s okay.” Domeric nuzzled into his hair, kissing his ear, whispering sweetly to him. “I know it’s tough, Ramsay. It’s okay. He’s bigger than me, and his cock is like fire, but I know you can show him how good you are at swallowing come.” He reached out for his brother then, as if nuzzling up to him wasn’t enough. First he grasped for the breast of Ramsay’s shirt, and then he slid his hand gently down Ramsay’s middle, over his belly, down his waist, settling on the crotch of Ramsay’s clothes. He grabbed his brother’s cock through his breeches and squeezed, encouraging him.  
  
Ramsay squeezed his eyes shut in response to his brother grabbing him that way, and the tears in his eyes spilled down the sides of his face. He swallowed, and swallowed again trying his damnedest to regain his composure but Domeric was right… Roose was bigger.   
  
He would have liked to make his father come with nothing but his mouth and throat, but he knew his limits, and so he pulled back. He kept a great deal of Roose’s cock in his mouth, but at least a third of his length slid back out. Ramsay made up for what he couldn’t swallow by using his fingers. He brought one hand up to grip Roose’s cock. He began to bob his head in a practiced rhythmic motion, and his fist worked in perfect time with his mouth, sliding back and forth and back and forth again and again.  
  
Domeric kissed down the back of Ramsay’s neck and continued squeezing his cock softly through his clothes.  
  
Ramsay continued what he was doing, tension mounting with each bob of his head. He was fast at work, using his mouth to fuck his father’s cock, and the next thing he knew his there was an explosion of heat. Roose came without warning. At first the sensation reminded Ramsay tossing a log on the fire and feeling it erupt, a sudden gush of fresh flame beating against his skin. It was like that, in a way, but Ramsay was swallowing in that heat instead of feeling it externally. He whimpered, weak to the divine pleasure of it, and the intensity doubled as he devoured Roose’s come.  
  
The come burned down the back of his throat, and Ramsay could swear he felt it settle in his belly. The very second it hit his stomach it spread through his whole body and suddenly he was coming too. It was unforeseen, and swift, and the combination of pleasure and warmth distilled its way though his own body, oozing out of his cock in an orgasm that made his dick spasm. Domeric was grasping him through his clothes, but it felt like he’d come untouched and Ramsay ached at the sensation.  
  
Roose had to peel Ramsay’s fingers off his cock and slide his dick from his son’s mouth himself.  
  
“It’s okay, Ramsay.” Domeric whispered to his brother. Ramsay was trembling like a leaf, and he might have been crying again except this time it wasn’t from gagging. “Relax, relax. It’s okay.” Domeric wrapped his arms around Ramsay and pulled his brother close, cradling him.  
  
“Will you suffice until your next hunt?” Roose asked, pulling up his pants and lacing them up.  
  
Domeric looked up at him, and nodded. He wasn’t sure if his voice would sound convincing when he spoke, so he said nothing.  
  
“Good,” Roose nodded back. “See him out.”  
  
Domeric scooped Ramsay up then, as best as he could; helped him to his feet and lead him from the room. He whispered sweetly to his brother the whole time. 


	3. iii

Ramsay stumbled through the halls of the Dreadfort, leaning heavily on his brother. Domeric seemed not to mind. The sun had barely set, and it wasn't time for bed, but they made their way to Domeric's bedroom none the less. The candles were low and the room was dark, and Ramsay collapsed on the featherbed as soon as he saw it. He felt so odd, like laughter was about to come bubbling up out of his throat... or maybe a sudden sob instead. The tingling heat that had consumed him when Roose came still prickled with warmth throughout his body.   
  
Domeric helped Ramsay and dutifully stripped away his brother's dirty breeches and small clothes. Normally goosebumps pebbled his flesh when he stripped out of his clothes and did not have bedding to pull over himself or a fire to warm up by. This time, Ramsay did not feel cold. "I don't understand," he whispered to Domeric, sprawled out on the bed.  
  
Domeric leaned over him, walking his fingers across Ramsay's chest playfully. "It's in the blood," he explained. "A stranger's blood might warm you, but he's your father, Ramsay. That connection means something more than warmth."   
  
Ramsay wasn't so certain it worked like that. Then again, he couldn't deny what had just happened to him. He didn't understand it, but maybe he would in time. For now he was too high on the feeling to care for explanations. His stomach twisted in knots, but good ones, like delightful little butterflies were playing in his belly. He laughed without reason, and Domeric broke into a smile and laughed with him.  
  
Domeric helped strip Ramsay of the rest of his clothes, and once he was naked too they curled up under the blankets together. Domeric pressed in close, nuzzling his brother’s neck, tangling their feet and legs together. Ramsay was hotter than he normally was, like he was burning through a fever, only without any pain and all the exciting delirium. He couldn’t sleep. His head swam like he was drunk when he closed his eyes. After an hour of tossing and turning in the sheets Ramsay decided he wanted his brother.   
  
In all the nights they spent together Domeric was always on top. Always. Ramsay found he was quite good at taking cock as well as giving it, and he moaned like a whore when he was fucked. Ramsay’s load, when he came, wasn’t half so much as the mess he’d made in his breeches but somehow the release of it took the edge off. Domeric seemed relieved as well. He had felt their father’s touch and licked his cock, but he had not received any of his come. Ramsay had swallowed it all himself. Having his ass filled with something warm seemed to satisfy Domeric. Even if he hadn’t gotten the main course, Ramsay was offering him leftovers, and Domeric was hungry enough to take them and be happy.  
  
The burning fire that was Roose did not leave him for days. Ramsay stopped feeling drunk on his feet after the first night, but his whole body was warm for at least a week. A full week. He had never experienced anything like it. Not long ago he had been relying on the blood of hapless men to warm him. Even that could not compare. Blood made him feel warm for a little while, but only on his hands and up his arms where he’d gotten it on him. The warmth that came from Roose was insidious, and insistent, and Ramsay was grateful for its longevity and strength.  
  
Like before their hunt, they did not see Roose in passing. He didn’t walk the halls, he didn’t join them for dinner, he didn’t care about their lessons. Ramsay no longer felt the icy chill of his father’s gaze on him either. He expected to feel the tingling cold of his stare every once in a while, but it seemed Roose had lost interest.   
  
Also like before their hunt they fucked every night. Before, Domeric had always been the one to fuck Ramsay but now their roles were reversed. Ramsay felt less and less like he was burning through a fever each time he came inside of Domeric, and Domeric seemed to be grateful for the heat. Domeric liked for his brother to bury his cock up to his balls and leave his seed as deep as could be. He never complained when Ramsay was rough with him, in fact he quite seemed to like it, and happily let his brother take him more than once a night.   
  
It wasn’t long until Ramsay was feeling back to normal and he settled into their routine again. It felt a little odd to have one here at the Dreadfort. There were days where he felt as if he had still just moved in. Sometimes when he was bored with his studies, and good gods they were boring, he wished he was back at the mill. His chores, though menial, were at least tangible and physically interesting. Sitting and stewing over books, sounding out words, and learning about long dead men was not interesting at all.   
  
Most of all Ramsay missed killing. He missed the feeling of blood on his hands and the excitement of wondering who would wander up the path next. He actually missed digging graves. Give him a day with a shovel and the ache in his back and in his shoulders would quickly remind him that he didn’t truly miss digging at all.  
  
He did not know how often hunts happened at the Dreadfort, but it was clear they didn’t happen enough. Ramsay wished he could bring it up; he wished he could ask his brother when they could go hunting again, but he felt as if he shouldn’t. He felt as if this was something they did not speak about outside of its occurrence. That, and the inexplicable warmth that radiated from their father. If he asked about it he was sure that Domeric would just smile his sweet little smile and shrug it off. ‘It’s in the blood’ was not an answer. Ramsay didn’t understand, and he had the feeling he might not ever.   
  
Ramsay wasn’t going to say anything; even as he felt the warmth of their father leaving home. He was not cold like he had been, he didn’t shiver in the night, but he didn’t feel as whole as he had when he’d swallowed Roose’s come. Ramsay was content to live with it, eagerly awaiting the moment when Domeric brought up hunting again, but Domeric never did.   
  
It was nearly a week and a half after their first hunt that Ramsay woke in the middle of the night to find his brother beside him trembling. Ramsay shook him awake, whispering his brother’s name. Domeric had tears in his eyes, and he blamed a bad dream, but the very next day they hauled out their weapons and set out on a hunt.   
  
Ramsay brought his bow, of course, and Domeric brought his spear. He knew that the weapons were just a guise this time, and they weren’t as important as the blades they kept at their waists. Ramsay did not have his own flaying knife, not yet, but Domeric kept one with him and that was all that mattered.   
  
On their first hunt they laughed and kissed and played with one another. This time things were much more serious. Domeric was much more serious. Ramsay could see it in him, not just feel it in the way he spoke little and moved with intent. It was almost as if Domeric was gaunter, or his eyes were paler. He seemed colder. He moved with deadly purpose, and Ramsay followed his lead. He liked it better this way. Playful hunts could have their place in their future, he hoped, but there was something to be said for severity as well.   
  
Their prey was a family. Ramsay had never killed a child before, and he wouldn’t have thought twice about it but Domeric was the one to slide his blade along the young boy’s throat. Domeric slayed the boy’s father as well, and Ramsay had the mother all to himself. They flayed their trophies, and by the time they were done with it the both of them were smiling again.   
  
Domeric had blood splattered all over him, the father had put up a struggle after seeing his son killed. Ramsay thought his big brother looked becoming in the color. With his pelt in one hand, he couldn’t help grabbing at Domeric with the other, and soon their progress back to the Dreadfort slowed so that they could rut against one another in the woods.   
  
“We have to take the flesh back.” Domeric protested, spine pressed the length of a tree trunk.   
  
“We will.” Ramsay said, sinking to his knees. “After.”   
  
It wasn’t as if Domeric’s cock wasn’t hard and ready for him. The contrast of taking his brothers warm cock into his mouth out in the open cold was odd, but Ramsay quite liked it. Domeric was running hotter from the killings, something that could literally be felt by touching him, and it was amazing to immerse himself in that warmth while the cold tried to press in on them.  
  
When he was finished, one sloppy blow job later, Ramsay’s belly was full and he felt twice as satisfied. His hunting trip had gone well, after all, but Domeric had killed more than he had and the warm come he could still taste on his tongue made Ramsay feel a little less jealous.   
  
Roose was waiting for them, as if he’d known where they’d been and what they’d done all along. He glanced thoughtfully at the pelts when he saw them, and then he considered his sons. Even though Ramsay knew his father was warm, warmer than anything in this world, being in his presence was even colder than being out in the woods. If he had not just killed, bathed in some blood, and swallowed Domeric’s seed he might have shivered to be on the receiving end of his father’s glare after so long.   
  
It was at Roose’s allowance that they crawled to him, and peeled away his clothes, and licked his cock until it was hard. He did not stroke their faces kindly this time. He did not regard them fondly. He let it happened, impassive as he could be considering the fact that he was getting his cock sucked. Even though he did not touch him the same way with his hands, and even though Ramsay missed having his face cupped and the feeling of his father’s thumb in his mouth, he could not argue with the implicit pleasure of Roose’s hot cock.   
  
Ramsay and Domeric both took a turn swallowing the length of it, using their tongues and the mouths and their lips and their fingers. Domeric had gone first, utterly desperate for the warmth. After a while of enjoying himself he handed the reins over to his brother who was eager to try again now that he knew what awaited him. Ramsay put his all into it, repeating much of what he’d done the first time. He wasn’t sure how, exactly, he had made Roose come. It had just happened. He wasn’t sure he could make it happen again.   
  
Domeric grew impatient waiting and excited watching. He was not content to wait until they were back in his bedroom to get his own. Ramsay did feel his brother’s hands on him while he worked, bobbing his head, but he didn’t realize what was happening until his clothes were out of the way. He was too distracted by Roose; Roose’s hot length burning like delicious fire in his mouth. Domeric mounted him right then and there, without even the kindness of something to ease the way or a few fingers warning.   
  
It didn’t matter how good he was at taking cock, the surprise and pain of it sent sharp tears to his eyes and he faltered where he was sucking Roose off. Their father’s hand was in his dark black hair suddenly, yanking hard. “Keep your composure,” he commanded unkindly.  
  
Ramsay’s tears fell, and he made a pathetic noise around the tip of Roose’s hot cock at his lips, but he did his best. What else could he do?  
  
“He’s so warm inside, Father,” Domeric whispered, gasping, sliding his cock in and in and in until Ramsay could swear it was his brother’s whole arm stuffed up his ass and not just his cock. “He’s got a belly full of my seed already. He’s _so warm_.”  
  
“Is that true?” Roose asked him, voice low and soft.   
  
Ramsay blinked up at him, trying to clear the tears from his eyes. Roose’s grip was vice tight in his black hair, and it was clear he was not allowed to go back to working his mouth on his cock until Roose was satisfied. Ramsay nodded, just a little, and made an affirmative noise.   
  
“Then there’s no need for you to swallow everything I give you. Share with your brother once your mouth his full,” Roose told him. Instead of unhanding Ramsay’s hair he used it to his advantage and plunged the boy’s head down on his cock. To his credit, Ramsay gagged and swallowed and choked but he did not bite or resist. Roose used him, forcing Ramsay’s mouth to go where he liked by the grip on his hair.   
  
Domeric used his ass as roughly as Roose used his mouth. He bucked his hips and rammed his thick cock in again and again and again. It didn’t feel especially pleasant, but the pain had its own twisted appeal. Domeric’s cock thrummed with warmth inside of him, and the actual friction he was causing added to that.   
  
Ramsay would not have been able to come from such treatment if it hadn’t been for Roose. Roose’s orgasm came from seemingly nowhere. One moment Ramsay was struggling to swallow his cock and the next he was choking on seed, hot and sticky. It burned down the back of his throat like drinking down liquid fire. It burned all through him. It burned through his belly, through the length of his own cock, exploding through him in a mad climax. Ramsay cried out around Roose’s thick length.  
  
He’d swallowed some come in the struggle, but Roose was quick to stop him. He freed his cock from Ramsay’s mouth and quickly brought a hand to the boy’s throat, clutching him there and choking him. He glared at the boy so coldly that Ramsay could do little else but still in response, like he was frozen.   
  
“Enough, Domeric,” Roose murmured, gently. He was staring straight at Ramsay, but speaking to his other son.   
  
“I’m…” Domeric panted as he spoke, still thrusting. “I almost… I’m almost…” He must have been able to feel the warmth of what Ramsay had swallowed spreading through his brother’s body because it hit him too and he came again. His load was not as big as the one Ramsay had coaxed out of him in the woods, but it was enough. Ramsay squirmed in his father’s gasp, body boiling. His mouth burned like Roose had forced a hot coal in it instead of come.  
  
Slick with sweat and still panting heavily, Domeric narrowly managed to slide himself free. He sat on his knees and reached out for Ramsay’s black hair, pulling on it. Roose unhanded Ramsay’s neck and let the boy be pulled. Ramsay sank into a kneeling position as well, but sat back on his heels, lower in height than his brother. It helped that Domeric was taller than him to begin with.   
  
Ramsay tipped his head back, as far as it would go. Domeric leaned over him, and he found his little brother’s waiting mouth. His tongue was coated with come and Domeric could see a fat wad of it sliding towards the back of Ramsay’s mouth to his throat. Domeric leaned in a kissed him, licking his tongue in. It was an awkward kiss, but the point of it wasn’t to be romantic or sweet. Domeric’s tongue was a soothing cool, and he cleaned out all the hot thick come that was burning Ramsay’s mouth. Ramsay was grateful for it, and he groaned happily in relief.   
  
When he was finished licking Ramsay’s mouth clean, Domeric broke their kiss and pulled away. His lips were wet with spit and seed and he closed his eyes and trembled with delight as Roose’s come warmed him.   
  
“Out,” Roose ordered. His voice was soft and quiet but his tone was not. He wanted them gone.  
  
Ramsay thought his knees might be too wobbly to stand, and when he got to his feet he found Domeric’s abuse of his ass was what would hinder his walking, not any weakness in his knees.   
  
“Fuck.” He stopped and braced against the wall. When he reached back between his cheeks, he found the wetness of come and bright red blood. He stared at it in surprise.   
  
Domeric was still on his knees. He had planted one hand behind him and leaned back on it, catching his breath, delighting in the sensations he was feeling. His pale eyes fluttered opened and found Ramsay. He stared at his brother a moment before catching sight of his fingers.   
  
Domeric’s gaze was thick with lust. He crawled to his brother, slinking like a cat, the same way he had crawled to Roose last time they had done this. Ramsay watched him approach with uncertainty. They should be leaving, he thought. Roose did not want them here any longer. His brother looked like he was crawling towards him with the intention to devour him. They ought to finish this elsewhere. Ramsay thought of walking, then, and he knew he couldn’t.   
  
Domeric did not speak, but he took Ramsay’s fingers in his own hands and brought them to his lips. He licked the blood away, moaning as he did.   
  
Ramsay opened his mouth to speak, but all he could do was stare.   
  
When Domeric had licked his fingers clean, he let Ramsay’s hand go. “Turn around, let me see,” he whispered.   
  
“We… we should leave. Father said…” Ramsay glanced up at Roose who was sitting, watching impassively.   
  
“Father will like this,” Domeric insisted, and he gave Ramsay’s hip a nudge. “Brace yourself against that wall, turn around, let me see.”   
  
Ramsay did as Domeric asked of him. He faced the wall, reaching out with his fingers to grab the stone. He could feel Domeric spread his cheeks, and that hurt a little, but he let it happen.   
  
“I bloodied you up.” Domeric noted though he sounded more amused than sorry. He leaned in and gave Ramsay’s ass a lick with the flat of his tongue. It stung, showing Ramsay just where he’d been torn. His fingers gripped tighter at the stone and he grunted in pain. Domeric laughed happily and licked again.  
  
“That hurts,” Ramsay protested.   
  
“Then this will hurt even more.” Domeric said, before suddenly reaching up and thrusting two fingers in.  
  
Ramsay bit back a shout and fresh tears stung his eyes. He reached back to stop his brother from tormenting him even further. He snatched Domeric by the wrist and yanked his fingers right back out.   
  
“What did you do that for!” he demanded. The heat of Roose’s come was burning through him, and his vision was blurring. He couldn’t quite see straight.   
  
“So father can have a taste,” Domeric told him. He twisted his wrist from Ramsay’s grip and got to his feet. He wandered back towards Roose, stepping over the pelts on the floor. His two fingers were slick with his own come and Ramsay’s blood. He showed it to Roose. Roose did not look away from Domeric’s face for a moment. “If it please you, Father.” Domeric offered his fingers.   
  
Ramsay’s vision went harsh black at the edges, crawling further and further towards the middle. His body burned, and burned, and burned. He could not hear what they were saying, or maybe he was hearing everything, or maybe everything was a dream. He couldn’t tell anymore. Roose’s come was running wild through him, wreaking hot havoc on his body.  
  
“Why do you try and tempt me, child?” Roose asked. With Domeric his words did not have such a hateful edge as they did with Ramsay.  
  
“Come hunting with us.” Domeric whispered. “We can feed you the way you feed us. We can be whole together, the three of us. It doesn’t have to be just you giving.”  
  
Still, Roose did not look away from Domeric’s face. “The boy is a bastard and his blood will make you ill. I asked you not to bring him here. I asked you not to take him hunting. You begged me to let him share with you, and to that I reluctantly agreed, but I have no interest in tasting his blood or the way his body taints your seed.”   
  
Domeric’s sultry delight had subsided. To Roose’s words, he frowned. He licked his own sticky seed and Ramsay’s red blood from his fingers and leaned in to kiss his father’s cheek. “Change your mind, Father. Please,” he begged. “You told me not to bring him here, and yet he fits in fine. You told me not to take him hunting, and yet he hunts as well as you or I. You told him he could not handle the heat, but it burns through him the same way it burns through me.”   
  
“You think you know better than your father.” Roose sighed, softly. He seemed disappointed. “Leave, Domeric. I don’t care to hear you bring this up again.” He turned away from his son then, finished with the conversation.   



	4. iv

Domeric had to help Ramsay back to his room. They slept without the covers over them. Ramsay tossed and turned and Domeric struggled to find a comfortable way to lay his head. In the morning, they fucked. Domeric rode Ramsay because Ramsay’s ass was still sore.   
  
That was the new routine. They fucked through the heat, the lived through the comfort that came after, and they suffered through the cold that crept up on them until one of them broke and suggested a hunt. They brought their trophies back to the Dreadfort, and in exchange for skins Roose warmed them with his cock and come.   
  
Ramsay and Domeric became very good at sharing. Roose never fucked either one of them. He let them swallow his cock, and that was all he cared to contribute. They began taking turns; one brother would make him come, and then after the next hunt the other brother would be the one to make him come. They both made concerted efforts to swallow only half. Whether they spit the rest into the other brother’s mouth, or let the other brother lick it out, was up to them. Sometimes they took turns on Roose’s cock, and sometimes it was just Domeric or Ramsay going at it by themselves until he came. Sometimes there was more sex involved between the two brothers, during and after. Sometimes there wasn’t. It just depended on how exciting their hunt had been that was all.   
  
Some of the hunts were incredibly exciting. Most of the time they went out and brought one or two trophies back, but sometimes the game was better. Usually it was just a pair of travelers on the road, but there were families as well and sometimes larger groups of people moving together. They slaughtered a family of five on one hunt, and that had been fun. Ramsay even used his bow a few times, but that was less satisfactory than a good up-close kill. He grew incredibly fond of his hunting knife, and he loved to see it covered in blood.   
  
One of Ramsay’s favorite hunts was when Domeric decided to bring the dogs like he had promised he would. They made the flaying harder, in the end. They tore a whole limb off one victim and left so many bite marks on the other that it had been impossible to peel the skin off whole. Domeric and Ramsay brought back the flesh in strips and pieces, but Roose had not seemed to notice or mind. The struggle with the flaying had not been very fun, but getting caught up in the barking of the hounds and chasing after them once they’d caught the scent was fast paced and exciting. The blood spray from the wounds the animals had caused had been impressive. Ramsay wanted to bring them out again, but Domeric dissuaded him from it. The dogs were meant for special occasions.  
  
Ramsay did have questions. The killing was fun, but what was the flayed flesh for? Why did they need to offer it to Roose in order to suck his cock? If Domeric wanted to suck him off, Ramsay would let him. He didn’t need anything in return. Was it really such an inconvenience for Roose?   
  
Why did they have to wait to go on hunts? Why couldn’t they go out and get a fresh kill every night? Maybe with the blood of strangers constantly on their hands they would not even need to go to their father for warmth.   
  
There was an air to this that lead him to believe they would get in trouble if they were caught. Maybe that was why they could not go out as often as he would have liked. If they were to be caught, what would become of them? Who would punish them? The Warden of the North maybe, but Ned Stark was off in Winterfell and what did he care about tales of travelers gone missing? It was cold out in the woods, and there were wolves and shadowcats that prowled. There were so many things that could befall a traveler, and Roose’s sons should be low on the list of suspects.  
  
Ramsay did try to ask a few questions, but he quickly learned that he was better off not bothering. Domeric was never quite straight with him when he asked anything important, and that had been true from the very beginning. His brother leaned towards being vague, or his answers lead to more questions, and it was something Ramsay pretended not to struggle with.   
  
He supposed he had no real reason to complain. He wasn’t ever actively complaining, it was just… sometimes it was tough. It took less than a month for Domeric and Ramsay to get into a fight. That’s what siblings did, he supposed, squabbled over things. Except they didn’t have the traditional relationship of siblings. They didn’t have years of their life spent living with one another and there was no familial love to back up the frustration that was slowly building. They were passionate with one another, they kissed and made love and killed together. There was so much to their relationship, but they were more like lovers than brothers.  
  
Ramsay could not say when he started feeling resentment, or if it was just little things that built and built. Maybe he was jealous that Domeric had killed more on their last hunt than he had. Maybe Ramsay wasn’t trying hard enough when they studied together and Domeric was getting frustrated. Maybe it was a million small things. Maybe it was nothing at all.   
  
Ramsay was feeling cold, and he knew Domeric was too, and the tension was tight between them because of one thing or another and Domeric would just not stop playing his fucking harp. He practiced the damn thing enough. He lounged in front of it naked after sex and plucked strings. He woke Ramsay up with melodies. He played when he was bored. He played when he wasn’t bored. Ramsay didn’t mind it, usually, but it had been a long day and he wanted to curl up under the covers and see some sleep and some warmth with his brother. Except not now. Now he just wanted Domeric to stop making so much noise.   
  
“Enough,” Ramsay snapped, sitting up on his elbows. “Will you stop playing that thing?”  
  
Domeric struck a wrong chord and scowled. “It’s not a thing, Ramsay. You know, you might feel differently about yourself if you picked up an instrument too.”  
  
Of course Domeric knew how Ramsay felt about himself. He’d known him for all of a few months, but of course he knew. Ramsay wanted to pick up the candle from the bedside table and chuck it at his brother’s fucking head. He wouldn’t expect that now would he? Then he’d stop thinking he knew what Ramsay thought, about himself or anything else. “For the love of the gods, I cannot bare another lecture from you and I cannot listen to you play that thing any longer. Stop Domeric. Just stop.”  
  
Domeric sat, offended, for a long moment before suddenly standing. “What is the matter with you?” He demanded.   
  
“You!” Ramsay shouted.  
  
Domeric stared at him, and his eyes were so cold Ramsay could swear he felt more Roose than Domeric. “Me? In that case I’ll leave. Enjoy my bed, Ramsay. Enjoy my bedroom. I would have stopped sooner, had you asked me you know. But no, no. It’s not about my playing, it’s me.” Domeric left in a huff slamming the door behind him.   
  
Ramsay wanted to scream.   
  
He spent the night shivering, feeling guilty for laying in Domeric’s great featherbed alone. There were other rooms in the Dreadfort of course. Guest rooms that Domeric could have been just as comfortable in, but this was his room and Ramsay had effectively taken it from him. It felt bad in a way. Ramsay imagined that Domeric went to curl up with Roose, and he was instantly incredibly jealous that his brother was enjoying their father’s warmth without him. He doubted that that actually happened, but that didn’t stop his jealousy any.  
  
By morning Ramsay was feeling sorry, and Domeric was too because he came to his brother nearly in tears. “I’m sorry.” He gave in all at once, hugging Ramsay. “I’m just…”  
  
“Cold.” Ramsay finished for him, nuzzling into Domeric’s neck.   
  
Domeric nodded. “Cold.”  
  
They both made the decision to do better; to try and take one another into consideration more often, and to speak up if they were unhappy. It was easier said than done, and Ramsay would be lying if he said he said he was trying his best, but trying to work things out with Domeric was much better than laying in an empty bed and shivering at night.  
  
Everything seemed to go away during their hunts, and when Ramsay had blood on his hands he felt more at home than he did at the Dreadfort. He wished they could hunt more often, but he took the happiness he could get when he could get it.   
  
Their fights continued, just arguments or spats that resulted in nothing more than the slamming of doors and an apology the next morning, usually from Domeric. It could be worse. They could be fist fighting. They could be vindictive and cruel with one another. Still, it was exhausting. The fighting was as much a part of their routine as the hunting was, and Ramsay wished he could just end it somehow. He wished there was something he could do or say to keep them from fighting ever again. In his angrier moments he wished he could crack Domeric’s skull. In his softer moments, he wished there was something he could say to make Domeric always understand his point of view so there never needed to be another argument.  



	5. v

Domeric startled him one morning with tears when they hadn’t even had a fight the night before.

“Get up!” Domeric grabbed his wrist and yanked. He was red eyed and frantic. It was barely day break but Domeric was already up and dressed. He seemed as if he had been awake awhile, but that didn’t make sense. They usually woke up together when they went to bed together, and they had fucked and curled up with one another the night before.

“What?” Ramsay stumbled to plant his feet on the ground before his face found the floor first. 

“Put clothes on. Look put together. Hurry!” Domeric would not say what for, but Ramsay begrudgingly did as he was told without any explanation. 

The very last thing Ramsay expected was to be brought to Roose Bolton. Their father avoided them, consistently. So far as Ramsay could tell the man did not even exist within the Dreadfort when he was home. He stayed so completely and utterly out of the way it was as if he was not there at all. That morning the whole place was bustling though, and the pink capes of Roose’s men surrounded them on all sides, reminding Ramsay that someone had to be in charge of all these people. Even if he was unseen, he was certainly still there.

“What is this?” Ramsay asked. “What’s going on?”

“Shh,” Domeric shushed him as they neared the solar door. “Don’t say a word, Ramsay. Not one word. Let me do the talking.” 

Ramsay wondered if he should be concerned.

Domeric knocked on the solar door, but opened it before there was an answer. He went hurrying in and Ramsay followed after him. Ramsay stopped dead in his tracks at what he saw. Roose was naked. Naked, naked. For as many times as Ramsay had had the man’s cock in his mouth, he had never seen Roose without all of his clothes. Not once. It was utterly surprising to him. 

After he noticed Roose’s nudity, Ramsay noticed the leeches. He could not have said what they were, at first, only that they were small and black and they littered Roose’s bare skin. It took staring a moment for him to realize. There were two fat ones at the crook of each elbow, and one of equal size about his neck, while others peppered him here and there. 

Ramsay had heard the rumors of course. Everyone knew Roose Bolton was fond of leeches. Ramsay had heard of page boys being sent out up the river to bring home new leeches for Roose every few days or so. Ramsay had heard of Roose being called “The Leech Lord” growing up. He had not seen the truth to any of these things until now of course.

“Father,” Domeric began.

Roose transfixed a glare towards his son and Domeric stopped short.

“I told you no, Domeric,” Roose said, soft and calm.

“You have to let him drink!” Domeric insisted.

It was clear that Roose did not care for his eldest son’s tone. He waited for Domeric’s urgency and his temper to subside a little before he spoke again. “I told you not to bring him here. I told you not to take him hunting. I told you I would not share my blood with him. See him out Domeric, or you will go thirsty.” 

“You wouldn’t do that to me.” Domeric shook his head. 

Roose only lifted a shoulder gently in a shrug. “You spent years at the Redfort without me. One month should not be so painful in comparison.”

Ramsay didn’t understand anything, and he had more questions now than ever, but Domeric had told him not to speak and he got the very distinct impression that it would be terrible for him if he did. 

“I suffered at the Redfort!” Domeric’s fists clenched at his sides and his anger rose like a tide, sending an icy wind cutting through the room. He did not raise his voice but dropped it down lower. He was so much like his father. “Ramsay has suffered for years without you! Let us both drink, Father. Please!”

“You may drink, but he may not.” Roose told him. His gaze shifted to Ramsay for a moment. Ramsay felt a slice of cold cut to his core. 

“Both of us, or neither!” Domeric would not compromise. 

“Neither,” Roose decided. He had no interest in continuing this conversation, and in truth he seemed rather bored with it. “Leave, Domeric, if you are not drinking from me.”

“You would leave your sons to pain and cold like this?” Domeric asked, as if accusing him of something terrible. 

“You are making that decision, Domeric.” Roose explained to him as if Domeric were a much younger child. “You made that decision the day you brought him here. Your suffering is your own.”

Domeric opened his mouth to argue further, but Roose was done. He lifted one arm, gingerly, to pry one of the leeches from the bend in the elbow of his other arm. 

It had been a long time since Ramsay had caught a leech on his own body, but growing up playing in the woods near the wet Weeping Waters meant that it had certainly happened. So far as he knew burning the leech was the best way to remove it, and when he was younger he took great pleasure in setting a hot poker in the fire to press against the black creatures’ bodies. It was nasty business, but Ramsay had been nothing short of nasty as a child.

It appeared that Roose did not mind the pain of removing them by pulling them off. The bite mark where the leech had been bled profusely, oozing down the length of Roose’s arm, but he seemed not to notice. 

One glance at the blood and Ramsay’s whole body lit up like a spark had been ignited. He wanted to taste it. He wanted to press his mouth to the crook of Roose’s arm and suck. It would burn. It might just burn him alive, but he wanted it so badly. He took a step forwards. Domeric reached out an arm to stop him, his eyes properly transfixed on the same oozing wound. 

“Drink, Domeric.” Roose offered his elbow. “Or leave, and take that boy with you.” 

“Father,” Domeric was weak in that moment. He stumbled forward. He reached Roose’s side before he fell to his knees. “Forgive me, Ramsay.” He whispered before pressing his mouth to the bleeding wound and drinking it in. 

Ramsay watched in awe. 

Ramsay understood that he would not be getting a turn, and Roose’s hate stung him in ways that made him feel left out in the cold quite literally as well as figuratively. He had never been interested in drinking blood before. He had considered bathing in it, sure, and there were times that he and Domeric kissed with blood splattered across their faces where they could taste the coppery tang of it on each other’s lips. This was very different. Just because he had never considered it before didn’t mean that he didn’t want to try it now. Desperately, Ramsay wanted it.

It was easier to resist the urge now the wound was covered, but Ramsay felt a sick jealousy as he watched Domeric’s throat swallow. 

“Please, I…” Ramsay spoke without thinking. “I’d do anything.”

Roose regarded him, and Ramsay felt as naked as his father was. Naked and left out for the summer snows to take him. “Leave if you know what’s good for you.”

Leave the room as not to be tempted? Or leave the Dreadfort entirely and never come back? Ramsay suspected it was the latter. Feeling wounded, and at unease on the receiving end of Roose’s coldness, Ramsay left. He had not wanted to go. He wanted to stay and talk his father into giving him a taste. He wanted to watch Domeric, and live vicariously through him. He wanted to imagine the taste and temperature of Roose’s blood. He left because his pride was hurt, and because he would rather go without than show his wounds.

Without his brother by his side, Ramsay had no clue what to do with himself. Alone, he wallowed in jealousy. He had never been truly jealous of Domeric until now. Ramsay had never minded Roose’s hate, it was Domeric’s affection that mattered more to him. Now that he was actively feeling left out every slight against that had ever been made against him made him angrier. He remembered things, careless words, half dreamt conversations. He did not deserve to be treated this way. He deserved as much as Domeric did. It wasn’t fair. 

Ramsay nearly lit the curtains on fire in his jealousy. In the end there were lit candles scattered across the floor, and their bedside table was splintered to pieces. Ramsay’s anger had been destructive, but he did not feel any better.

He watched from the window as a host assembled, and left. He did not know where they were going or why, but he wished the lot of them would never come back. He had not seen Roose leave, but Ramsay expected he had gone with them, and that made him wish even harder for some terrible accident to occur. Ramsay would miss the taste of him, and his great warmth, but he was angry and truly meant his ill will.


	6. vi

Domeric found him in the late hour of the night. Ramsay had not eaten, had not left Domeric’s room, had not gone anywhere else in the Dreadfort for any reason. Though he was hungry and his head was aching, Ramsay had curled up alone and was content to sleep by himself if his family so desperately did not want him to be a part of what they had.

“Ramsay,” Domeric shook him awake. “Ramsay.”

Ramsay had not gone to bed hot or cold, but he woke up burning. Domeric was warm to the touch. Ramsay blinked blearily into the darkness. Domeric grinned at him. 

“I’m sorry I could not come sooner,” Domeric whispered to him. “Here,” he raised his wrist and did not so much as offer it but force it to Ramsay’s lips. “While his blood is still fresh within me. Drink, Ramsay.”

In the dark, Ramsay could not see the deep cut on Domeric’s skin. He could feel the wetness when it touched his lips. It burned him, and he pulled away. Domeric would not have any resistance. His other hand found the back of his brother’s head, gripping tight. 

“Drink,” Domeric commanded.

The blood filled his mouth, burning him. Ramsay’s eyes stung. He would find blisters in the morning, he was sure of it. He choked in pain, but forced the blood down the back of his throat. The second mouthful was only slightly less painful. It still burned, but at least Ramsay knew what to expect. He groaned in reluctance, attempting to resist again. He brought up his hands, pushing Domeric’s arm away, or trying to at least. 

“Hush,” Domeric soothed him. “I know it hurts. It’ll get easier.” He forced Ramsay to swallow one more mouthful before breaking away.

The room was black, but Ramsay could feel a different sort of blackness enshrouding his vision. He remembered the second hunt, and when Domeric had licked his blood after. He felt the same now as he had then, but the strength of it was doubled. Ramsay went from sitting up, swallowing blood, licking it from his lips so that it did not blister his skin to suddenly dead to the world. Completely, utterly, dead.

Ramsay woke to the maester standing over him, dotting his brow with a cold wet sponge. He jolted, sitting up straight, shoving the old man off. He had dreamt he was in the seventh hell, burning. Burning alive. Burning at a stake. Burning, burning, burning. “Domeric,” Ramsay tried to say but his throat was dryer than parchment paper and it pained him to speak. 

“I’ll send for him,” the maester nodded.

He tried to kill me. Ramsay thought at first. He didn’t understand. His fingers trembled, and he was slick with sweat, and he stumbled to his feet despite the trouble it took to stand.

“Sit,” The maester insisted, pushing Ramsay back down into the bed. “You have been sick for nearly four days, you haven’t eaten, and your sleep was not restful. It would be unwise to try and walk now. Sit. I’ll find your brother.”

Three days? Three days! Three days he’d been lying in bed, ill? What had happened? What had Domeric done to him? Ramsay’s head pounded and his heart raced and he sat stunned trying to regain a little composure. 

Domeric came to him in a rush, and he wrapped his brother in his arms, clutching him desperately. His wrist was bound with bandage, and Ramsay remembered the pain of swallowing his brother’s blood and his hollow belly ached in response. 

“I’m so sorry.” Domeric burst into tears immediately, and brushed them away as fast as he could. His eyes were red as if he’d been crying. “I’m so sorry, Ramsay. I only meant to share. I only wanted to keep you warm. I gave you too much. You’re only half Bolton, I didn’t know what it would do to you. I didn’t know.” Domeric went from clutching his brother in a hug to holding his face. They stared into each other’s eyes, ice on ice, but the cold was nowhere to be found here. Ramsay could have stuck his face in the lit hearth and felt cooler than he did with his brother’s hands caressing his cheeks. “Forgive me.” Domeric begged.

Ramsay swallowed, his throat felt so dry. “Everything hurts.” He whispered instead of his forgiveness.

Domeric broke, a fresh wave of tears falling from his eyes.

They poured Ramsay mulled wine, steaming from the pot over the fire, but he might as well have been drinking well water for how warm it was. It soothed some of the ache in his throat, but only a little. His belly felt as hollow as ever, even after Domeric helped him down to the dinner table. They filled up with bread and stew and still Ramsay was hungry. He felt so utterly ill. He felt as if he would never be well again.

“Am I going to die?” Ramsay asked that night, curled under the covers. He was starting to sweat, and began to disentangled himself from the sheets, pushing them off.

Domeric started crying again at the question, and Ramsay was getting awfully sick of hearing him sob. “I prayed to all the gods that you wouldn’t, and here you are. I won’t let you die, Ramsay. I won’t.”

Ramsay was afraid to admit how utterly unwell he felt, but Domeric must have been able to tell. He unwrapped the white bandage from his wrist, hesitating only the once. 

“The maester told me not to…” He said. His wound was bleeding again. Three days old, and it still bled. It did not gush the night he had presented it to Ramsay’s mouth, but there was a sudden seeping that bubbled up on his skin. “But… they don’t understand. They’re don’t know what it feels like.”

Domeric showed his wrist to Ramsay, and Ramsay’s whole body screamed in response. He did not want to drink, and yet he knew he should. He found himself sitting up. He licked the bead of blood from his brother’s wrist, and his tongue burned. Ramsay swallowed, little that there was to swallow. Though his body was hot all over, the pain that consumed him quelled enough for him to drift off into a dreamless sleep. 

Domeric presented his little brother with blood once in the morning and once before bed every night after that. It was withdrawals that ailed him, he suspected, and two little drops would not hurt him in the long run. All Ramsay knew was the only time his body stopped hurting was after that taste of Domeric’s blood on his tongue. They tried to fuck, Domeric thought maybe a good dose of come would help as well, but Ramsay did not feel well enough. It was weeks before he felt better, and even then Ramsay was not himself. He had grown to expect that blood in the morning, and at night, and he did not like to be without it. That seemed to worry Domeric. Ramsay become so unhappy when he went without the taste, it was impossible to argue with him. It was just something that had to happen. It was part of their life now.

“What if this is what Father was trying to warn me about?” Domeric asked him one morning.

Ramsay scowled. “What did he say?” 

Domeric shook his head. “No… I… I’m just worried for you Ramsay. I don’t know how long I can go like this.”

The thought of Domeric cutting him off was like a knife in his chest. “What do you mean?” The blood was more than just a balm for his aching. Domeric’s blood warmed him. It warmed him in a way sex could not. It warmed in the way hunting could not. Ramsay could go back to slitting throats and playing with a stranger’s blood, sure, but it would not satisfy him and he knew it. He needed Domeric.

Domeric felt guilty all at once. “Father fed me his blood in order to keep me sated while he was away. I… sharing with you… it’s taken so much away from me. He’s not due back for another month and a half and I’m already feeling cold in the night, Ramsay.”

Ramsay knew. He felt it too. “Then we will go hunting.” 

Domeric sighed, and nodded. “Hunting will help, I suppose.” It would be hollow without the reward of Roose waiting for them, but the warmth of a stranger’s blood was better than nothing at all. They had to sustain themselves until Roose came back. They had to find a way to make this work. Just so long as Domeric did not cut him off.

Their hunts were wilder than ever. Since they had no cause to bring back the skin, they took the dogs with them. Domeric warned Ramsay against it and insisted they would taint the beasts, but it was more fun this way and he knew it. He liked the blood spray, and he liked seeing victims be torn limb from limb just as much as Ramsay did. Though the dogs did maim, it was always Domeric and Ramsay themselves that did the killing. The preferred it this way.

Domeric surprised Ramsay during one outing when he sliced his victim along the belly and thrust half his arm in, ripping out the man’s entrails. Domeric’s hand returned with bloody red intestines clutched in his fingers, and dark red blood all the way up to his elbow. Ramsay was not horrified to see it happen, but surprised and enticed. Domeric did not want anything specific with the intestines now that he had them, but he swore thrusting his arm in like that was almost as warm as their father’s touch. Ramsay wanted to try it too, and he vowed that if the urgency struck him he would not lose his nerve. 

They really thought they could make it that way. They did. They struggled, but they thought they could make it. Ramsay still craved Domeric’s blood, and though a shouting match had occurred he had been demoted to one drop a day. Ramsay soldiered through the pain. Their usual inconsistent arguments occurred twice a week, if not more. By the time a month had passed it was nearly every day that they were fighting. Every night they felt cold no matter how many people they had killed and how recently. Even when he was angriest with his brother, Ramsay still fucked him and swallowed his come and his blood and clung to him for warmth in the night. 

He felt sorry for every wish he had made that Roose and his host befall some terrible accident. What if Roose never came back? What if they were stuck in this misery forever? Some hunts were actually unsuccessful. They had picked the woods clean, and travelers suddenly stopped coming this way. Maybe they had learned. Maybe they were being warned not to get too close to the Dreadfort. Domeric and Ramsay turned to killing prisoners. First they killed the ones who had been wasting away in the dungeons. Then the ones that were set to be hanged or beheaded soon. Then the ones who weren’t supposed to die; the ones who were locked up for petty crimes. They killed those ones too.


	7. vii

When the prisoners were depleted and the woods were empty, tensions mounted to a point of madness. Ramsay needed it. He needed the blood. He needed to swallow it. He needed to feel it on his skin.   
  
He had not meant to kill his brother, not really.   
  
Ramsay had only meant to make a shallow cut. He only wanted to lap up a little blood. Domeric woke while Ramsay still had the knife in his hand, and that was when the accident had occurred.  
  
“A few more days!” Domeric had shouted at him, again and again. Roose was due to return in a few more days. It was the same thing Domeric had said when Ramsay suggested killing one of the girls who worked in the kitchen and warming themselves with her blood. Just a few more days, and Roose would be back, and they need not kill any staff or servants. Ramsay could not wait a few more days. He couldn’t wait any longer. He needed something. He needed anything.  
  
Domeric’s blood was not as warm as the night after he had drank from Roose, but as the knife slid across his throat Ramsay found himself showered in it. It covered him wholly. His dream of bathing in blood had finally come true, and he was delirious with pleasure. He drank it. He drank it straight from Domeric’s neck. He licked it from his own arms and fingers. His body thrummed and his fingers shook and for the first time in weeks he felt warm. He felt terrible and bad and wrong, but gods at least he was warm.  
  
Ramsay’s vision went black, clouding in on him. The last thing he saw was Domeric’s limp body draped over his lap. He pet his brother’s hair, and his own fingers were matted with blood. The heat took him, burning through him, warming him inside out and after that it was a straight fever.  
  
Ramsay awoke days later. Or, considering his last experience, he assumed it was days later. He did not know for sure. Like last time, he whispered the name. “Domeric.” And the maester frowned.  
  
“He is dead, Ramsay,” the man told him. “The castle is still mourning. You would do well not to mention his name.”  
  
Ramsay knew he was dead. He knew he was the one who killed him, and yet he felt entirely disconnected from the entire thing. “What happened?” he asked. He was more wondering why he hadn’t been locked up in the dungeons and left to die.  
  
“A sickness of the bowels,” the maester told him.  
  
That wasn’t right, because Ramsay had slit his throat.  
  
“What happened?” He asked again, more fervently.   
  
The maester considered. “You should speak with you father about this,” he decided.  
  
For the very first time, Ramsay went to Roose on his own. The host had returned, it seemed, despite all of Ramsay’s wishing that something terrible would happen. He found his father in the solar waiting for him. Being in his presence was even colder than Ramsay remembered. He opened his mouth to speak, and something in the way Roose looked at him said he shouldn’t.   
  
Ramsay spoke anyway. “Are you going to kill me?” He asked.   
  
Roose stared at the boy. “Would you like to be killed?”  
  
Ramsay didn’t understand that. “No, I… Domeric.”  
  
“Domeric died of a sickness.” Roose impressed upon him. “The maester will tell you.”   
  
That didn’t make sense. “I killed him.” Ramsay admitted. He felt guilty. In all the people he had ever killed, the only one that he felt bad about was Domeric. He shouldn’t have done that. He should have waited a few more days. He should have tried harder to stay strong. He should have just attempted to live with the cold.   
  
Each new heat they introduced him to, Ramsay had adapted to. He had not needed the warmth before he had felt it, but once he’d felt it he wanted it. He supposed it could work the same way. They could trace it back. He could learn to live with being colder and colder. He would be miserable, and unhappy, and unwell but he could have learned. Domeric should not have died. Ramsay should have adapted.  
  
“I was hoping he would kill you,” Roose admitted. “Alas. You were more desperate than he was. I should have known. He cared for you too much to kill you. You don’t care for anything at all.”  
  
Roose words were painful. They needled him. Like ice, they needled him.   
  
“I was so cold.” Ramsay clenched his fist. He had not been thinking.   
  
Roose regarded his son, his last son left, with such disappointment. “If you think I intend to show you kindness after what happened to my last trueborn heir, you are mistaken. I have no interest in providing for you the way I provided for him. You will have to learn to live with that cold, won’t you Ramsay?”  
  
Ramsay practically shivered on cue. He deserved this, he knew he did. It was a fate worse than death, but for what he had done to his brother he deserved it. “Just like you?” Ramsay asked. “Cold as you are?” It was a wild accusation, and he could be wrong, but Ramsay knew without knowing that he wasn’t.   
  
Roose stared at him, and did not say a word, but the cold in his glare said everything for him.   
  
Domeric had tried to fix this. Ramsay half remembered his brother’s offer to their father. The offer of blood. They could all feed on each other, fuck each other, hunt together, keep each other warm. That was his plan. They had tried to make it work, just the two of them, and it was clear the plan was a poor one. Perhaps this was for the best after all.  
  
“I am sorry,” Ramsay said softly. “I’m sorry I killed him. I liked him.”  
  
“Leave,” Roose told him, nodding towards the door.   
  
Ramsay hesitated. “Leave and never come back? Leave the Dreadfort forever?” That’s certainly what it felt Roose was implying.  
  
Roose bared his teeth, like an animal. Ramsay was taken aback. A smile. It was a smile. “You are my legacy. You are all I have left. Leave, and live out the rest of your days in the comfort of the death of your brother provided for you, and learn to live with yourself, Ramsay. We’ll see if you can.” 


	8. epilogue

“Did the dogs rip her arm off?” Ramsay asked, delighting.  
  
Reek lifted the arm, clutching it in the fingers he had left. He could not raise it very high, but he showed Ramsay from a distance. Ramsay laughed. Reek was such an ugly looking thing. His clothes barely fit, his hair was matted and lice crawled his scalp. He was ugly, but he was Ramsay’s favorite ugly thing. When he looked at his favorite pet, Reek made the whole world prettier in comparison to his filth and disgustingness.   
  
“Is there much blood, Reek?” Ramsay asked. He approached, cautiously, shelving his bow over his shoulder. He ought not get too close. If he got any blood on his hands, he might not be able to resist. It had been two months since he succumbed to the urges. He pulled a prisoner’s entrails out the way he’d seen his brother do once, so long ago, and gods, it felt so good. Ramsay felt ill after, colder than he had in years, and he wished he hadn’t done it at all. The momentary pleasure was not worth the pain and cold that came after.   
  
“Yes m’lord,” Reek mumbled through broken teeth. He shuddered to look at it. He shuddered when he was upset, a clattering of his brittle bones. He shuddered when Ramsay looked straight at him as well.  The motions were the same, yet entirely different. Ramsay knew that staring at Reek always sent a chill down the poor creature’s spine. It was different from the way he shivered when he was disgusted.   
  
Reek did not know what cold was. Even walking in the summer snows with nothing but a dirty tunic to keep him warm. He did not know. He would never know. He did not know how lucky he was to stand with the toes he had left squishing in the blood of the body beside him. Ramsay could see, now, where it was pooling on the cold ground. Reek looked pained to be so close to such gruesomeness. In truth, he was lucky. So lucky.   
  
Ramsay was no stranger to jealousy, but he never thought he would be jealous of such a sorry little creature as Reek. Pain stabbed him in his gut, reminding him that if he had just waited a few more days he might be smiling across the way at his brother instead of some half-starved ghost of a man.   
  
The wind picked up, utterly cold. It cut through the trees and ruffled Ramsay’s hair, and Ramsay faced it bravely.


End file.
